


And Justice For All

by NotJustFeet



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Western, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-07-28
Updated: 2012-08-18
Packaged: 2017-11-10 22:16:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/471291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotJustFeet/pseuds/NotJustFeet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Western AU of the Avengers. Vigilante Steve Rogers ends up in the town of Absolution just at the right time. - Abandoned as of 20th October 2012</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sing for Absolution

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [ this prompt](http://avengerkink.livejournal.com/7940.html?thread=15564548#t15564548) at AvengerKink. 
> 
> The plot comes from the John Wayne film "Big Jake." Other research was done using Wikipedia and Peter Newark's Illustrated Encyclopedia of the Old West.

He came from the west, riding towards the rising sun. Between his broad brimmed hat and the sun faded red bandanna, little of his face could be seen. He was more interesting than cattle though, and so the ranch hands watched him as he made his way along the trail.

He was slumped in his saddle, clothes wrinkled and dusty. He held the reins of his mare loosely in his hands, barely seeming to give any direction. The mare moved at an easy walk, her hide obscured with the same dirt that draped her rider.

A rifle rode in a sling on his right, and the well worn grip of a pistol protruded from a belt holster. A bedroll was rolled up and tied behind his saddle, and a pair of saddlebags bulged.

“Know him?” one hand asked another.

“Could be anyone,” was the reply.

Beneath the bandanna that kept the dust from his lungs, Steve smiled. Maybe he'd stay a while.

He'd ridden north to south, border to border. He'd ridden east to west, sea to shining sea. But in all his travels, of his time spent in each and every state, he had never been back to Texas.

Until now.

Out in the wilderness, borders were just lines on a map, they weren't substantial, barely existed. But the second he set foot on Texan soil, he knew.

Oh, how well he knew.

“Remember the Alamo,” had been their battle cry. Smoke and cordite had filled the air along with the screams of the dying. By the time the battle was done, the ochre soil was red with blood.

Memories he had blocked out had come swarming back, and even now they hovered on the edge of his mind, itching for full recollection. 

He shifted his weight in the saddle, feeling the pull of the scar tissue under his shirt. He should have been dead when he crawled away from the battlefield. Age should have killed him, or a stray bullet from one of the killers he hunted.

And yet he still lived, and this was his homecoming.

From his left, down an offshoot of the main path came the sound of galloping hooves. Two young men like night and day raced past him without a glance, carolling wildly into the wind.

A homestead or ranch, he would assume.

The main track would onwards across the plains and Steve let his mind wander and drift in his memories of the past. Not on the bad times, but the good. He was a gun-slinger, a vigilante, but he only ever helped the innocent. He chose when he would draw his gun.

He'd been hearing the rattle of wheels for a while now, but hadn't really registered them until now. The stagecoach thundered past him, the driver standing on the seat, wielding the whip with an expert and deft touch. His, no, her red hair blew back in the wind, and she looked alive.

Some people were just not meant for living in the towns or the cities. Some were meant to roam the land, to feel the wind in their hair, to find out what lay over the horizon.

Steve chuckled raspily, and urged his horse into a canter. Being home again was making him   
downright philosophical. Nothing a few shots of whiskey wouldn't cure when he got to the next town.

The church bell sang out through the dry dusty air of the town of Absolution. The name was carved into a piece of wood that hung from the arch that spanned the road. 

It wasn't the largest of towns, Steve thought as he passed underneath the arch. Houses lined the street he was on, interspersed with a few stores. The church, sheriffs office, saloon and stables all sat around the crossroads that formed the heart of the town.

The dark haired preacher was standing outside the church, and Steve politely touched the brim of his hat as he rode past. 

The stagecoach that had passed him earlier was pulled up outside the saloon and the red head was watering the horses while carrying on a conversation of stares and monosyllables with a blond haired man.

There was something about the cast of his features that suggested to Steve that the man had Indian blood in him, either a parent or a grandparent.

Steve dismounted and dropped his horses reins over the hitching post, feeling his body aching. He untied the bandanna and shook it out before retying it around his throat.

His spurs jingled with each step as his boot heels rapped against the well scarred wood of the steps. He blinked to adjust his eyes to the darkness of the saloon, and to take in the layout.

It was very like every other saloon. A long bar stretched along the back wall, with a staircase to the upper floor on the right. Everywhere else there were tables.

The place wasn't that full. Four men played cards at one table, a lone man lurked in a shadowy corner. The barman was chatting amicably with a black haired man, a stack of glasses in front of him.

It was quiet, sleepy, peaceful.

Just the place to get to know Texas again.


	2. Kidnapping

From horizon to horizon, the sky was ablaze with stars. The quarter moon was just starting to descend from zenith, and the night air was alive with noise. Coyotes barked and insects whined, cattle lowed and horses shifted in their stalls. It was a well known symphony, a midnight lullaby that had been lulling the Norsson family to sleep for generations.

The ranch house lay at the top of an uphill slope. What was originally a small two room house had been expanded over time and now sprawled out over three levels. A small lantern burned on the porch, illuminating the tired face of Odin Norsson, leaning against one of the support posts.

His eldest boy was out there on a cattle drive, taking charge for the first time. Odin wouldn't have let him go if he didn't trust him, but he couldn't help worrying a little.

“Thor will be fine,” a voice spoke from behind him. “He's got wise heads to advise him.”

Odin didn't need to turn around and see the man in the lamplight. Heimdall was an old and dear friend. Sometimes Odin wondered just how Heimdall always knew what to say, but he figured he was better off not knowing. Whatever the trick, it had made the pair of them superb hands and now Heimdall and he ran the ranch.

He only wished that Heimdall had been able to warn him about the godforsaken mustang. Odin Norsson, who had never been bucked off any horse, had fallen off like the greenest of hands when the ornery beast had reared and lunged. To add insult to injury, the devil possessed beast had shattered his right femur with one kick, before Heimdall had driven it back with a whip.

He shouldn’t even be standing on the leg, he thought, and turned back towards the house.

Heimdall only slightly hid his smile as Odin turned. He'd probably sit out a while longer, Odin thought, limping slightly as he moved, feeling the bone deep ache start again.

He walked the halls of the house in darkness, sure-footed despite his injury. This was his home, his place, and he could always find his way around. His grandfather had started the building, his father and continued it, and Odin had done with same. Every stone, every timber had been laid with love and care.

He paused outside a slightly ajar door and smiled. Although he couldn't see it in the darkness he knew there was a sign nailed to the door.

Loki's Room.

Carefully Odin eased open the door, careful not to let it squeak. Loki's dark hair gleamed in the scant moonlight, his face serene and slack. Gently, Odin tucked the quilt more securely around his sleeping younger son.

There was a flash of silver from outside the window. Curious, Odin moved to look. Probably just the eyes of an overly nosy raccoon or prairie dog. He unlatched the screen door and stepped out onto the wooden deck that ran the length of the house. Nothing was there, but he still felt a trace of unease.

Silver flashed again, along with a dark shape that was far too large to be any innocent animal. Odin turned, but the sharpness of the movement aggravated the pain in his leg and he stumbled, unable to hold his weight. That saved him. The knife stroke aimed to take him straight across the throat took him across his left eye instead, from the top of his nose to the centre of his cheek.

Pain screamed through him, a fire that burnt from the inside out. The still barely healed bone of his leg added its voice to the pain chorus. Half blind, fearful and angry, Odin still threw himself at his attacker, fists balled tight. 

His son screamed.

Loki screamed.

His son was in danger.

And then as the stock of a gun slammed into his head, there was nothing but darkness.

**Author's Note:**

> I understand that this was a troubled time in America's history, and I have tried to treat it with sensitivity to avoid offending anyone. If there is anything historically wrong, inaccurate or offensive, please either comment, or email me at notjustfeet@gmail.com so that I may correct it. Thank you.


End file.
